This Much Is True (36 page)

“Maybe we should call him and Charlie now. Why wait? Let’s call them now,” Marla says.

I don’t even stop to think through the implications of this.
No.
I just pull out my phone and dial. He answers on the third ring. He sounds like he was sleeping, but he’s wide awake within seconds.

“Tally?”

“Hi, Elvis.”

“Have you been drinking?” Linc sounds somewhat alarmed, and it makes me laugh.

“A little. Marla’s right here. We’re starving though. What can you bring us to eat? The kitchen’s closed, and the hotel restaurant is closed and the only other choice we have is the mini bar, which really doesn’t have food.” I pause and take a breath and then go on in a rush. “You can come to the wedding. You need to be here for Charlie. Marla wants you to come. I want you to come. You should come. You should come to the wedding, and you should come see me.
Now
. Bring food.”

I hand the phone to Marla, who giggles the entire time, while she gives Linc better directions and reminds him to bring Charlie.

* * *

They’re here in record time. I clock it at thirty-five minutes.

I look up at Charlie. “You drive too fast.”

“I know. I’m trying to slow down.” Charlie gets this wide grin. “How are you, Tally?”

It’s hard not to like him.

“I’m good.” I flash the groom-to-be a sly smile, fling off the hotel’s comforter in the next, and stand up in my fine little black dress that Marla insisted I wear. I’m barefoot, hungry on a variety of levels, and suddenly very cold. I look over. Linc is staring right at me, gazing at me, and seems to be undressing me with his eyes.

I extend my hand out to his. “Tally. Twenty. I dance for the New York City Ballet. And, you are?”

“In trouble,” Linc says with an easy laugh as he takes my hand into his.

I’ve never seen him laugh quite this easily before. I incline my head and study him for a minute or two, while he gets this unexpected shy smile but doesn’t let go of my hand.

Instead, he pulls me to him, and I quickly note he’s different than Rob. Taller. Still so sure of himself. He’s stronger, leaner, and tanner—a more fit version of himself than even a year ago. Time has been good to Lincoln Presley.

“I’m in trouble, too,” I say back to him. “Did you bring food?”

“I did. You know how I like to see you eat something, in case we get to do the deed later.”

“Right.”
Breathe
.

This vague memory of him looking at me like that before stirs.
Was it that first night?
I kind of shudder—thinking about the consequences, thinking of Cara, who’s not really a consequence anymore—but momentarily recognize that I’m older, wiser, and covered, tonight.

* * * *

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Linc ~ Some kind of record

I
t’s five in the morning, and we’ve gotten forty-five minutes of sleep in total. I watch her sleep and try to think of five thousand different ways to keep her here. Yet I already know she will not stay. She’s told me a little about the European tour coming up. She leaves in May. I’m two weeks away from spring training, and she pretends to hold interest in that but her face glazes over because the truth is she really has no interest in baseball any more than I do in ballet. She doesn’t exactly understand what I do and what I sacrifice for it. I get it, even though a part of me is disappointed by her true lack of interest in what I love to do the most.

She looks so beautiful just sleeping next to me. She ate the hamburger I brought her as if she hadn’t eaten real food for a week. Based on the size of her, I would hazard a guess that’s true. She’s taller; I think, although we’ve been horizontal since we got to her room. We lay right next to each other on the bed, while I fed her French fries one at a time, because she seemed to enjoy the undivided attention I gave her. She’s seems…
lonely
, more than distant. I guess that’s the best way to describe it. And, while she sleeps, she looks so sad. It’s heartbreaking to watch her actually. The crevice along the bridge of her nose deepens. I wonder if she knows she does that. But how could she know she does that? I wonder what’s made her so unhappy. I don’t have to wonder for too long because she starts talking in her sleep about Holly and even Rob and someone named Cara, and sometimes she says Elvis or Linc.
No.
I don’t have to wonder why or who makes her so unhappy anymore. It’s all there. She says it all. Her face says it all.

How many disappointments can one girl have? And I have to count myself among them, too.

“Again,” she murmurs now. “Do it again. It has to be perfect. Again.”

It’s another twenty minutes before she finally stirs awake. I ply her with a glass of water and three Advil and my best smile. I’ve already showered, and I prepare myself for the turn—the remorse and the regret about us being together—because, clearly, she has a whole other life in New York without me. I grab her left hand and study the brilliant diamond there on her finger. I slip it off and hold it up to the sunlight that begins to stream through the hotel window and splays across the bed and the two of us. She just stares at me without saying a word. Then, she slips out of bed, naked, blushes a little but makes no attempt to cover herself. She does that dancer’s strut I remember so well toward the bathroom, while I listen to her as she runs the water and brushes her teeth. It makes me happy and sad at the same time just hearing her do these normal daily routines that we never get to do together.

The ending is coming.
I can feel it. I don’t know if I can take it this time. But then again, I say that every time and yet, every time I take it. And, I come back to her again for more. I will take whatever time I can get with her. I will do that for a lifetime. I will. I know that much about myself. She is my water. I can never get enough of her, and it appears that I will die trying to love her, to keep her, to hold her with me, even though our time together seems to evaporate so swiftly. It slips through our fingers so damn fast that we don’t even have time to savor it when we’re together.

She slips a white camisole over her head and pulls it down over her stomach. I watch every move she makes and hold my breath. I just wait for the signal of this ending. She brushes out her long dark hair just as my cell phone rings. She leans over and reads the name.

“Nika?” she says, looking uneasy. Her voice is husky from a lack of sleep and too much booze and something else.

“I don’t want to talk about Nika. Not today.” She glares at me.

This is new.
I kind of like it and I pull her to me, and she falls back onto the bed. “I believe this is yours.” I hold up the diamond ring just inches away from her face.

She stares at it for a few minutes. I sigh deep and slowly slip it on her finger. Then she kind of laughs and brushes at her eyes.
Is she crying?

“It makes him happy,” she finally says.

“Does it make
you
happy?”

“A ring doesn’t solve everything, Elvis.” She gets this solemn look. “I can never be Holly. We’re both a little disappointed with that.”

“Then why
stay
with him?”

“Because it’s easier. Because he’s been there for me. Because it’s complicated.” Her lips part like she has more to say, but she doesn’t say anything more.

Anger burns through me slowly again.
Anger at her. Him. This. Us.

After a few minutes of staring at each other, she fits herself into me closer and starts touching me in all the right places.

“Are we going to talk about all this other stuff all day? Or, are we going to make the most of our time together? I’ve got to be somewhere else this afternoon. Marla and I have to be somewhere, but I have this morning for
you
.”

“The whole morning? That’s like some kind of record for us, isn’t it?” I try to sound casual and nonchalant, but it comes out pathetic and needy. She seems to take advantage of me at this point.

“Don’t be such a baby, Elvis.
Really.
I’ll be here for three days, and we’ll work it out, okay? I might stay longer. I’ve got to see where my parents live.”

“I can show you.”

“Oh, my God, you’re still working with Tommy on baseball?”

“He’s really good.”

“He’s going to be a hockey player,” she says with notable arrogance. Then she sits back on her legs, puts her hands on her hips, and glares at me.

“Tally,” I say slowly, taken aback a little that she doesn’t even know this about her little brother Tommy. “He’s an all-star player. He made it last year. He’s really, really good. I’ve got a few of the coaches and baseball scouts I know keeping an eye on him.”

“He’s only nine.”

“Tally,” I say gently, suddenly feeling like I have a rare glimpse into her psyche. “He’s
eleven
.”

She groans and lies back down on the bed with her arm over her face. “Oh, God.”

“Whatever you want to call me,” I say in an attempt to make her laugh. She eventually does. “Who’s Cara?” I ask after a few minutes sliding right in next to her.

Her smile vanishes. “What?” She gasps for air as if I’ve just punched her. She lowers her arms and stares at me, open-mouthed.

“You said
Cara
a few times in your sleep last night. Well, in that forty-five minutes of sleep that we got. Were you dreaming of my mother?” I smile, but she doesn’t return it. She gets this stricken look. Her eyes tear up. Now she really does look like she’s going to cry.

I did this. I made her cry. What is wrong with me?

“What are you doing to me, Elvis? Why are you doing this?” she asks.

“I’m just asking because you said something about Cara.”

“She’s Tremblay’s little girl.” Her voice shakes. “She’s two. Marla and I were going to swing by and see Tremblay this afternoon for old time’s sake.”

She gives me this steely look. Her beautiful eyes glisten with new tears, and she wipes at them with the back of her hand and looks away. I can tell she’s fighting for control, and that I’ve upset her for some reason. I’m trying to figure out how to take it all back and to, in effect, reel back the last five minutes because our time together
is
like water evaporating. It’s too fleeting, and we can’t catch it or keep it because it runs past us both too fast. I’m rushing on trying to explain it to her, and she’s nodding and listening and finally smiles.

“Stop talking then. Let’s not waste it, Elvis.”

So, we don’t.

* * *

Just after one in the afternoon, Marla swings by looking like death warmed over with big sunglasses on that cover half her face. She barely says two words to us beyond informing us both that Charlie lit out for an early anatomy class a few hours ago. I watch the bride-to-be and maid-of-honor head off toward Tremblay’s place wherever that might be. These two promise to be back around six tonight for the rehearsal dinner.

I’ve got things to do in order to make good on my promise to myself that I’ve suddenly committed to in saying what I need to say to her, showing her what I want. It’s true: I have very little time in which to say or show it. I have to be ready because this time it’s a full count, and losing is not an option.

* * * *

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Tally ~ Because it’s easier

“
S
o, how’s it going?” Marla asks as soon as we pull away from the hotel’s long-term parking lot.

We are on a mission that is so far off the wedding track that Marla’s mom will most likely be calling us within the hour, wondering where we are, because there is so much to do between these two events—the rehearsal dinner and this wedding.

And yet? Marla is more insistent than even I am about meeting up with Tremblay, unannounced. For some obscure reason, we are intent on seeing this thing through together, too. It’s like a girl pact. The kind we used to make in high school about every boy, every event, every dance, every recital, every plan we ever made. We do it together remains our standard modus operandi.

“It’s going fine.” I glance at her sideways. I’ve donned my own pair of big black sunglasses, so she can’t see my face either. My head is pounding, and I’m hoping the additional Advil I took will simmer things down. I tell her this now, but I know that’s not what she’s really asking about.
Linc. Rob.
She’s asking about those two, not my head, or how I feel physically. “Closure,” I finally say with a tight smile. “That’s all it is. Closure.”

“With Rob or Linc?” she asks.

Oh this girl is smart, so smart.
“You should work for Kimberley Powers. I’m dead serious. She would love you.”

“I’m going to be a teacher,” Marla says proudly.

“And waste your talent on
children
? When you could make more money working in PR with Kimberley?”

“It’s never about the money.”

I don’t answer for a long time. “It never is, is it?” I finally say.

“How come Rob didn’t come with you?”

“He bailed on me at the airport without a valid reason. He just said he wasn’t doing it. Actually, he said he couldn’t watch it.”

“Oh.” Marla gets this pink tinge to her cheeks. A few minutes go by, and she’s wiping her face with the back of her hand. “Why are you with him?” she asks. There’s an edge to her voice like it really matters how I answer this one.

“Him,” I say slowly. “Linc or Rob?”

“Rob.”

“Because it’s easier. Because it’s complicated. Because he’s been there for me. Because…just because.” I clench my jaw to avoid saying more, but I finally blurt out. “Why are you marrying Charlie?”

Two girls hung over with too many secrets between them shouldn’t be answering these heavy-duty questions. But we are. And, she does.

“Because it’s
easier
. Because it’s complicated. Because he’s been there for me. Because…just because. I’m pregnant. Almost four months. Due in August. So we do what we have to do.”

Silence.

My mind races. Now I don’t know what to say that will sound right. I have plenty to say, but I’m too afraid to say the wrong thing, and I don’t want to lie for once. “All that drinking—”

“That was
you
. I’m battling morning sickness pretty much night and day. I was dumping the champagne onto the ground, and you were wasted enough not to even figure it out. Those were virgin margaritas earlier. Tracey made them for me.”

“Why didn’t you just
tell
me?” I half-turn towards her, while she continues to look straight ahead suddenly intent on navigating the curvy two-lane road and avoiding my intense gaze. She won’t even look at me now, and I know it has nothing to do with the traffic. We’re passing by all this beautiful countryside without either one of us even taking notice of it until now.

“Because you needed to get drunk and relax and figure things out with the baseball player and—”

“And cheat on Rob,” I finish dully.

“Well, at least, I
love
Charlie.”

I wince partly with guilt and at just hearing the truth from her. “We break up all the time,” I whisper. Seeking solace of some kind, I stare out the passenger window, unseeing, and avoid her accusatory look. “All the God damn time.”

“Well, one of these days, you’re going to have to figure out why that is, Tally Landon
Delacourt
or whatever it is you’re calling yourself these days.”

“We do what we have to do. Surely, you know that by now,” I say.

We don’t say anything more after that.
What else could be said?

Twenty minutes later, we’re cruising Tremblay’s upscale Victorian neighborhood of Alamo Square that most people actually equate to all of San Francisco. Allaire Tremblay bought in a long time ago with her hard-earned cash from NYC Ballet before the housing market surged. I remind myself to take a look at these kinds of investments at some point. Rob has been harping on me for the past year about that. If I won’t take his money, I should at least be investing mine what little there is of it. I can practically hear his looping lecture about this very thing. Musing about Rob, I barely glance at the designer-dressed mom in a matching black and white striped jogging outfit running doggedly up the steep incline with the fancy red baby jogger with her dark long hair flying behind her. Then I take a second look and grab Marla’s arm.

“It’s Tremblay.”

“Holy shit,” Marla says. “She’s bought into the whole mom package.”

“Yeah.”

We cautiously follow her via car as she runs the sidewalk. Five minutes later, she turns down a worn dirt path that leads to a city park and immediately starts unloading her precious cargo from the baby jogger. She’s done this before. The only thing I’ve gotten a glimpse of so far is the little girl’s pink and white walking shoes that continually bounced up and down while Tremblay ran. Then, in the next minute, she appears. Cara’s bundled up in a snow-white jacket that’s lined in pink fur. I can’t help but think that even Tremblay has fallen for the blatant marketing ploy of Disney and dressed her up like a doll. I almost smile, but my heart is pounding so hard that I feel like I might hyperventilate right here in Marla’s car.

Cara toddles over to the swing set and pushes at the swing and looks back at Tremblay, who is busy re-adjusting the jogger and grabbing a back pack from the side. She calls to her, and the baby turns and runs back to her. Her little face lights up at whatever Tremblay’s said to her.

“She looks just like you.”

Marla hasn’t taken her eyes off either one of them since we parked. I haven’t either.

“She does.”

Cara’s hair is long and dark like mine. I watch as she runs straight for Tremblay’s outstretched arms. Mother and child embrace. Allaire kisses the little girl’s forehead and brushes her hair back from her face and re-ties it in the next.

I watch them closely and mindlessly check off all these sentimental requirements that I need to see for myself.
Cara.
She’s happy. She’s growing. She’s not mine.
Tears trickle down my face, and I absently wipe at them. I can’t look away from this mother and child scene that unfolds thirty feet and a whole other lifetime away from me.

“She looks good,” Marla says through her own tears. “Don’t mind me. I cry at everything these days.” She removes her sunglasses to fix her face in the car mirror and glances at me sideways. “Let’s go.”

I nod, sigh a little, and lean back in the car’s passenger seat thinking ‘
let’s go
’ means Marla’s ready to drive away. Instead, she alights from the car and starts calling out to Tremblay.
Of course,
Allaire Tremblay hears her. Who else would be yelling, “Madame Tremblay,” just the way we’ve been trained?

And so, I meet my child for the second time on the day before Valentine’s Day.

* * *

Marla and I are both a little taken aback by this version of Allaire Tremblay. Her house is somewhat in order—clean, possibly immaculate; however, there are toys strewn about everywhere. Her focus is Cara. That much is obvious. Two hours into this astonishing visit, I’m still attempting to concentrate on being able to openly breathe. I can’t take my eyes off of Cara for more than a few seconds at a time. I’m staring at Linc’s grey-blue eyes reflected so clearly in Cara’s. I can’t stop staring at my daughter, our daughter—Linc’s and mine—this miracle.

Allaire Tremblay seems to have noticed. Her smile has been surprisingly genuine, but she now seems more guarded then when we first arrived.

Marla holds onto my right hand and squeezes it occasionally. We are way late. We need to go. And, I don’t want to. I just want to watch Cara forever.

Somehow, we’ve managed to have this exhaustive conversation about NYC Ballet and UCLA and Paris and Milan and Rome, mostly about me, but without me actually talking most of the time unless prompted. Distracted by this utter fascination with watching Cara, I only briefly tell them about the upcoming tour to Madrid and Paris again and then Moscow. Marla fills in the rest of the talk about NYC Ballet, Paris, Milan, L.A., her wedding, Charlie.

Now Tremblay looks as glazed as I feel. Yet, she catches my attention with an unnatural wave with her hand, and I openly stare at her when she just nods and rewards us with an unforgettable calm.

Tranquil. Serene. Composed. This is Tremblay.

I guess that’s the biggest difference about her. When I tear my gaze away from watching Cara long enough and glance at Tremblay, I discover her smiling and even laughing sometimes. It proves almost impossible to reconcile this Allaire Tremblay with the one I know and have practically hated since I was ten.

Again.
The memory of that word and the way she’s always said it to me plays through my mind. This is a different Allaire Tremblay. She’s patient, content, and
happy
. It’s disconcerting. Yet, after more than two hours, I see the protective side of her towards Cara in deference to me and Marla so clearly.

She tells us that she’s still running the studio, but that she’s cut way back on the amount of hours she spends there. She has recently hired another dancer to help her out. I nod at the appropriate intervals while Marla starts glancing at her watch more and more. Her own smile now fades.
We have to go.

Cara plays on the floor near our feet. She has a fascination with my shoes and keeps touching them. They’re the black Christian Louboutin pumps that I picked up in Paris. I think she likes the red sole. After only a moment’s hesitation, I slip them off. Cara takes off her shoes, puts mine on and attempts to walk around in them holding onto the furniture as she goes. It’s hilarious. Marla gets up and starts snapping pictures with her iPhone, while Tremblay and I share this weird, surreal moment as we look at each other. We start to laugh as we experience this enchanting scene with Cara all together.

It’s weird. Surreal. Yes, surreal explains it all.

I finally stand up and prepare for this ending.

Allaire Tremblay hugs me long and hard and whispers, “Thank you, Tally. You made my life.” She steps back and smiles wide. Her golden eyes glisten with tears.
Holy shit. She’s crying.
Now, so am I. Marla started three minutes ago.

The moment ends with Cara hugging at my leg, asking me to pick her up, which I do; because you don’t deny a two-year-old anything. She wraps her little arms around my neck and hugs me tight. A few seconds go by, and she leans back and then swoops in and kisses the side of my face.

“Tally, bye-bye.”

“Yes. Tally’s going bye-bye. Take care of yourself, Cara. Your mom is…so great.”

“Great mom,” she parrots as she claps her hands.

I hand Cara to Tremblay with a general ease that I didn’t think I was quite capable of doing. This mysterious solace and the customary guilt swing in on me and start to do fierce battle inward. For once, solace wins out. I think it’s the look of happiness I see on Cara’s face as well as Tremblay’s.

I can live with that. I, apparently, do.

“Surreal,” Marla says after a much-needed twenty minutes of pure silence in the car after we leave Tremblay and Cara behind.

“No kidding.”

We’ve navigated the challenging streets of San Francisco. I’ve wrestled with the idea of checking in with my family and pounded that idea into subconscious submission for another day or two. It seems we’ve both just begun to breathe freely again as we head toward the hotel and traverse all the winding curvy roads to get there all over again.

“Cara’s happy, Tally. They both are. That’s all that matters. You did the right thing. You can feel that and say that now, can’t you?”

“Most of the time.”
Breathe.
“Because someday she’ll hate me. She’ll be old enough to know what it takes to be a mother, and she won’t understand why—all the reasons why—I gave her up. I think that’s what kills me the most. And, keeping it all from Linc.” I frown.

“Well, you can’t judge the moment until you get to it.” Marla looks at me hard for a few seconds, cajoling me to believe her by bestowing me with one of her all-knowing looks.

I roll my eyes and sigh. “What the hell does that even mean?”

“It means maybe someday you’ll be able to tell him, and it will all work out. We both know that life has a way of changing on us before we can figure it out, and you can’t predict what’s going to happen in the next.” She gets this wicked smile. “So let’s get back to the groom and best man and see where they take us.”

My iPhone goes off.

It’s a text from Rob:
“I’m here at the Oceana. Where are you?”

Where am I? What am I doing? What did I just do last night?
I don’t have acceptable answers for any of these questions. Do I?

I text back:
nowhere.

* * * *